


Status Quo

by RuinNine



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: (Yep that's right!), Animal Traits, Crocodile Smut, Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Slash turning to Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RuinNine/pseuds/RuinNine
Summary: There are rules needed to define a status quo. For GQ and Croc, that may or may not work out.Companion piece toBlood Brothers.
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones
Comments: 18
Kudos: 132





	Status Quo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [susiecarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/gifts).



> No native speaker. No money. Just fun.
> 
> I couldn't let the idea of passing out from a crocodile blowjob go, so here we are. xD Unbetaed, because I was just too excited to wait. You see any mistakes or inconsistencies, please let me know. Thanks! And merry Christmas!
> 
> @susie: This is on you, just so you know. ;D <3

\<|>/  
  
  
“So, I guess we need some rules here if this is supposed to work,” GQ says to no one in particular.  
  
They're sitting around post-apocalypse, waiting for their evac ride, and neither of them is really up for making nice with their teammates after almost witnessing the end of the world. They all have some wounds to lick, wounds to the body and to the mind, some that will heal faster and others that might remain. So many people died today, civilians as well as members of their own team and the Suicide Squad.  
  
GQ himself would've been among the dead if not for Killer Croc. Blown to smithereens in a dirty subway tunnel, because his superior officer had lost a bomb with one damn second on the timer. Not that he'd had any hopes for a better way to go, with the job he has and this particular mission being a shit-show right from the start. But a guy can hope, and thanks to Croc's unexpected decision to be a hero, he can keep hoping a bit longer.  
  
The crocodile man is sitting beside him, silent and still, almost like a sentinel. He's looking at GQ right now, too, the only one paying attention to what he just said. GQ even thinks he appears slightly curious, so he continues and sets up the first rule. “No more losing bombs.”  
  
For a moment, nothing happens, but then Croc huffs out a few breaths in quick succession, his whole, huge body rocking with it. Ha, GQ thinks gleefully, I made the sewer monster laugh. It's a strangely fond thought.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
“Hey, how's it going?”  
  
GQ has to wait a few seconds for a reaction from Croc, but then he turns his head away from his shiny new TV – slowly, like he's expecting this to be a trick of the mind. But GQ's actually standing in the open door to his cell. Croc blinks a few times and then returns to staring at the screen. It doesn't seem like a reply is forthcoming, yet once again, GQ is proven wrong.  
  
“Bored,” Croc mutters at last, voice low and gravelly. From disuse, maybe? GQ can't imagine he gets a lot of visitors.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees, then clears his throat. “The boss is on it, though.”  
  
Croc hums, then there's silence again. Just as GQ is about to take the hint and leave, he scoots over to the other side of the couch. “Second rule,” he says, and his voice is already perking up a bit, adjusting to being used for more than growling and one word answers. “No standing awkwardly at the door.”  
  
GQ laughs. “Good call.” He pushes the door shut behind him and then goes to plop down on the couch. It's surprisingly comfy, considering this is a prison cell. But sitting here, next to Croc, watching weird hip-hop music videos, it doesn't really feel like it. “Hey, you ever asked for beer? That's the only thing missing right now. Chips, too.”  
  
Croc gives him a sideways stare and GQ immediately raises his hands in surrender. “Right, got it. Third rule: no talking while watching TV.”  
  
He's okay with that, too.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
The training facility Rick managed to scrape together out of second-hand gym equipment, an old pool with crumbling tiles as well as battered boards and brick walls serving as makeshift opponents and obstacles is not what GQ is used to. The squad loves it, though. The first time they are escorted into the warehouse, it's like a playschool trip to Disneyland. There's some squeals from Harley and a few manly sighs of relief from the rest as they are reunited with their weapons and clothes and then let loose on the course. The general idea is to allow them a few minutes of letting off steam before the actual training with the rest of the team begins.  
  
Croc, apparently, has other ideas. He sneaks up on GQ (which shouldn't be that easy, dammit) while he is distracted with tracking the trajectory of the Captain's boomerang and grabs him around the waist. “Let's work on your swimming,” he rumbles, ignoring GQ's shouts of protest as he drags him to the edge of the pool.  
  
His yelling is cut off abruptly as he's dumped in the water. But as soon as he has resurfaced, he's got a lot to say to Croc's stupidly smug face. “New rule,” he gripes as he's kicking his legs against the weight of his uniform dragging him down. “No swimming in non-swimming gear.”  
  
The pleased look on Croc's face doesn't change, and GQ feels his anger subside almost immediately. He looks so different in the water, much more at ease, at _home_ , and it's a nice sight. The guy deserves some happiness in his life, he thinks, then startles as the same happiness resonates in his own chest. _Jesus_. This is not supposed to happen.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
The day Harley gets rescued from prison by that deranged bastard Joker is a sad day in GQ's opinion. First of all, he would hardly call it a rescue. Compared to the first time he met her, she has become increasingly stable and reliable and actually a lot of fun to talk to (not to mention fun to watch in the field). She still had her moments, of course, but those were moments that made GQ fondly roll his eyes instead of reaching for the trigger on his gun. But now all that progress she had made will be destroyed in the blink of an eye under the thumb of that megalomaniac. That relationship is textbook unhealthy.  
  
And second of all, they lost three soldiers in the attack. It's completely unnecessary bloodshed that makes GQ's skin crawl. Dying in the field is one thing, that's part of your goddamn job as a soldier, but dying at Belle Reve, on their own turf, that is much worse. GQ doesn't envy Rick the task of calling the families of the deceased. Nor the phone call to Waller to explain how this could have happened in the first place. That is an awful way to spend your afternoon.  
  
With Harley's trail long gone cold, GQ joins the crew working through the rubble of the prison break, trying to salvage whatever they can. Which isn't much. A few undented pieces of chain-link fence and Harley's espresso machine that is still sitting there like she might come back any second. The depressing image does nothing to lift GQ's spirits, and after the day he's had, there is only one place he wants to go.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Croc twists out of the lazy circle he's been drawing in the water and pushes up against the edge of the pool, folding his arms on the tiles lining the rim. “Hey.” He looks just as down as GQ feels. “Sucks.”  
  
GQ blows out a long breath, then toes off his boots along with the socks and rolls up his pant legs. With a sigh, he plops down next to Croc and dangles his legs in the water. “Totally sucks.”  
  
The water is blessedly cool and soothes some of the anger still burning in him. The presence of Croc certainly helps. He liked Harley, too, GQ is sure of that. Her batshit crazy way of talking and dressing and fighting had amused him to no end, not to mention the completely open and unprejudiced approach she had taken to Croc's own appearance and reserved behavior. She had never cared about the teeth or the snarls or the threatening posture, taking everything he decided to offer in stride. GQ wonders what her absence will do to the team dynamics, what will be more important to the squad: getting her back or following her example.  
  
“You ever thought about breaking out?”  
  
Croc blinks a few times, thinking carefully about his answer. “Yeah. A lot.” And okay, that shouldn't surprise GQ, nor cause the short pinch of disappointment he feels at his honest reply. Croc cocks his head, then suddenly amends, “Before.”  
  
“Before?”  
  
“Midway.”  
  
GQ almost opens his mouth to ask what changed his mind, but Croc is looking up at him with unshuttered, unblinking eyes, and he thinks he knows what Croc is trying to say, must be trying to say. GQ laughs softly, but he can't meet Croc's gaze, focuses on his knees instead. “Glad you changed your mind. I didn't want to make it a rule.”  
  
Croc doesn't react to his joke, so it falls a bit flat, but he doesn't move away, either. And that must be a good sign. They stay like this for a long time, GQ kicking his legs in the water and Croc drifting next to him, breaking up the little patterns he makes on the surface. At the end of it, walking out the door, GQ doesn't feel just as anxious about the future of their team as he did when he walked in. If Croc has got his back, there's not much he has to fear.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
“Shit. Thanks.”  
  
Croc doesn't reply as he floats beside him on the small waves curling against the buoy he just set GQ down on. His watchful eyes switch between him and the horizon, divided between watching out for their ride home and making sure he's okay. Not that GQ is anywhere near lethally injured, but the unintentional tumble he took not only dented his air tank out of shape, but also some of his bones. GQ is not yet sure which ones.  
  
The reason why Croc had to pull him up to the surface is so absurd GQ vows never to tell anyone. They had finished their practice run early and therefore decided to take a look at a nearby wreck of a fishing boat before their transport back to Belle Reve was due. And as these allegedly harmless things go, GQ had nothing better to do than startle a group of stingrays hidden in the sand around the bow. They had rushed him, causing him to briefly lose his bearings, and before he could recover, his air tank had already made the acquaintance of the mast, damaging the cylinder valve and thus rendering it unusable. Daft, really. And embarrassing as hell. Some trained professional he was.  
  
“Stung?”  
  
Torn from his intense self-loathing, GQ can only blink at Croc. “What?”  
  
“The rays. Did they sting you?”  
  
“Uh, no.” He thinks. He's never faced a stingray up close before, but he's heard being stung by one hurts like a bitch. Not that his body doesn't hurt in several places, but it's nothing that would suggest more than a few nasty bruises. “Fuck, I'm sorry you had to haul my ass up here.” Croc remains silent, so GQ guesses he didn't mind. But still, this has been bugging him right from the start of their unusual partnership. “Wish I could give you what you're giving me. So you could have an equal, you know. Not someone you gotta look after in the field.”  
  
Croc levels him with a flat look. “Why?”  
  
GQ frowns. “Why,” he repeats, incredulous. Then he waves a hand over his weak, breakable, human body. _“Why?!”  
  
_“Yeah. Why.” Croc cocks his head to the side, like he's going to crack his neck, but much slower. GQ has come to understand it means that his patience is wearing thin. “Why would I want what I already got?”  
  
GQ opens his mouth, then pauses. It is an interesting question. “Huh.”  
  
Croc huffs out a low laugh, then reaches out to rest a hand against the side of GQ's neck, above his pulse. It's cool and steady, and his fingertips are skimming through the soft hair behind his ear. It's hard to stay mad like this. “Be you,” Croc says. “That's enough for me.”  
  
And right then, there should be a rule against steamrolling GQ like that, with words that simple and that heavy at the same time. But he can't really bring himself to complain. Instead, he covers Croc's hand with his own and holds it there.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
They continue like this for a while, with the small touches, the meaningful looks – but only when they are alone. Everybody else knows they are much too close anyway. Rick knows it, the squad knows it. But so far, none of them had any reason to approach the touchy subject of how there might be more between them than friendship. And they were not going to give them one.  
  
Not even Croc and GQ have talked about that, not really. At times, GQ had come close to giving in to the itch of wanting to know, but he just can't bring himself to do that to Croc, to add to all the expectations he already has to meet and doesn't want. He just can't bring himself to find out for sure if there is indeed more between them. He doesn't think he could handle being rejected _and_ losing the best mission partner he's ever had. Friend, whatever. The status quo is better than not having it at all.  
  
But then there's this absolute disaster of a mission and GQ almost dies, _again_.  
  
He can't remember much of it now, since the shock and the blood loss took huge chunks out of that memory. However, what he remembers above all else, as clear as day, is the look on Croc's face when the bullets hit GQ. When he realized how much damage had been done, and how little he could do to stop the inevitable. GQ didn't think someone as invincible and untouchable as Croc, used to winning any fight, used to surviving anything, was capable of such horrified fear. GQ will never forget that look. Nor the rage that followed it.  
  
“ _New rule,” Croc bites out, eyes ablaze with stone-cold fury, teeth painted red with the blood of the guards dumb enough to shoot GQ. “You are not allowed to die.”  
  
__GQ wheezes as he doubles over, hands slipping uselessly over the multiple holes in him, unable to keep his own blood from escaping at an alarming rate. Then there's Croc kneeling next to him, pulling him close and propping him up. The jolt of crippling pain almost knocks GQ's lights right out, but by sheer force of will, he manages to cling to consciousness. “Fuck,” he curses, but leans further into Croc's embrace. It's so much easier like this, pressing his cheek against Croc's collarbone and thinking of things that could have been. “Shit, Croc, you have no idea.”  
  
_“ _Shouldn't talk.”  
  
_“ _Croc-”  
  
__GQ can actually feel the growl vibrating against his temple. “Gonna make that a rule, too.”  
  
_“ _Fuck the rules,” GQ grumbles. It's getting harder to talk, he doesn't have much time left to fuck over the status quo, too. “Do you know what I actually meant when I said I want to give you what you're giving me?”  
  
__A sharp inhale. “Guess the same thing I meant when I said you're enough for me.”  
  
__And huh. That's- “What?”  
  
__No answer.  
  
_“ _Croc?”  
  
__Croc doesn't reply, but he suddenly tenses all over, his grip on GQ tightening beyond what he can take, and this time, he loses the fight against the darkness sweeping over him.  
  
_GQ knows now that whatever had been in that dart in Croc's leg had kicked in then, interrupting their- well, not confessions, not really. More like almost-confessions. Whether they were enough to change the status quo is not entirely clear. GQ hasn't been awake for long, and between the doctors and nurses fussing first over him, then Croc and, last but not least, Deadshot, there hasn't really been a good moment to check.  
  
“Right,” the head medic finally says after an eternity, obviously satisfied. “You're good to go.”  
  
Neither Deadshot nor Croc move a muscle. “Go where,” Deadshot asks, pointedly, as if that had been the mother of all stupid statements.  
  
“Well.” The doctor eyes the guards surrounding the door. “As I see it, you are not required to be here beyond your medical examination.”  
  
Croc and Deadshot exchange a look, and oh, this can't end well if the two of them decide to team up. Rick is still sleeping in the bed beside his own. The last thing they need in here is a row between the squad members and the soldiers. “The way I see it, as second-in-command,” he starts, making sure to stress his rank, “there's no harm in letting them stay.” The head medic, obviously unhappy about that, opens his mouth and GQ holds up a hand to show he's not done. “As long as the guards stay as well. Any objections?”  
  
As it happens, there are none. The doctors and nurses file out of the ward, leaving the soldiers guarding the door. “At ease,” GQ orders, but only two of them obey and lean back against the wall. The rest remains stiff and watchful. And okay, Croc and Deadshot must have made a much noisier scene when he was still unconscious so they could stay in here. Whatever, GQ has bigger problems.  
  
Like Croc walking slowly up to his bed, eyes sharp and intent. GQ forces himself to relax instead of shifting uneasily, so it won't set off an unfortunate misunderstanding involving guns and lots of yelling. Croc must be aware of that, too. He stops just out of reach and sways a bit from side to side. Almost like he's unsure. And somehow, that thought finally slows GQ's frantic heartbeat. There's two of them in this, after all. Why should Croc fare any better?  
  
“Hi,” GQ says and attempts a smile. It must look tired and slightly pained, but the corner of Croc's mouth ticks in reply. “You okay?”  
  
“Yeah. You?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“It's a miracle we're _all_ okay,” another voice joins in, and GQ almost startles. For a moment, he forgot Deadshot was watching. “More or less. Seriously, every time I think this job couldn't get more fucked up.”  
  
GQ looks over at Rick. It's weird seeing him so silent, so still. He doesn't like it. “What happened?”  
  
Deadshot snorts and rolls his eyes. “Ninja Turtle over _here_ -” Croc rumbles a warning, but Deadshot ignores him. “-was growling and snapping his teeth all over the place, wouldn't let us get to you. So that idiot over _there_ injected himself with your blood. Whatever for. I have no idea. But surprisingly, that actually worked.”  
  
While Deadshot keeps recounting the story, neither GQ nor Croc are really listening. Their eyes lock, finally, and there's no doubt about it. They both know why Rick came up with such a crackpot plan – and why it worked. And it's almost worse, knowing the status quo has changed without being able to do anything about it. But no, GQ thinks as he sinks back into the pillows, already on the brink of drifting off again. At least now he knows. And he is not prepared to let this go.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
It's ridiculous how much time it takes for GQ to whip himself back into shape, how many attempts to stand before he can walk the few steps to the door and back without breaking into a sweat, how many arguments with his doctors about clearing him for rehab work in the gym _and_ the pool. It is time he has to spend separated from Croc, and that annoys him the most. So he works tirelessly until he can at least wheedle the assessment 'cleared for light exercise' out of the head medic (he's pretty sure he is number one on that poor guy's bane-of-my-life scale). It comes with access to a much larger perimeter than the previous cycle of ward-bunk-rehab. Including Croc's cell.  
  
It's been thirty-one days since they had to part ways, and the thought of seeing Croc again puts a spring into GQ's step as he follows the guards down the well-known path into the basement. It's insane how much he missed that grumpy face and that awful couch – even BET. Croc is still there when he arrives, turned as usual to the TV with its lonely channel. But the couch is gone, replaced by an actual bed. With sheets. GQ almost forgets to cross the threshold he's so busy staring. Looks like Croc's thoughts had run along the same lines as GQ's while they had been apart. And GQ will be damned if that doesn't short-circuit his brain right on the spot.  
  
“You've been busy,” is all he manages, can't stop the mad grin from taking over his face.  
  
Croc gives him a look that, even though he should know better, GQ would almost call _shy_. “Yeah,” he says, a little helplessly. Then stops. Shrugs.  
  
And no, _no way_ , they are _not_ going back to that. GQ had to almost die to break free from the constant loop of two steps forward, one step back. And he's sick of it, sick of wasting time. “In about five seconds, I'm going to come over there and kiss you. So if you don't want that to happen, tell me now.”  
  
Croc just keeps staring at him, quiet and still, and GQ wonders whether anyone ever said anything of the sort to him, or even kissed him without announcing it first. Probably not. A pang of sadness echoes in his chest as he steps over to the bed, right in between Croc's knees, and settles his hands on his shoulders. And Croc finally reacts, hands rising to frame his waist, pulling him against him. But instead of tugging him into a kiss, he leans in to press his forehead against GQ's throat, takes a few deep breaths. And GQ knows he's checking with him like this, sorting through his scent for any second thoughts, so he focuses on everything he associates with Croc. _Feeling good, feeling safe, successful missions, fun in the water, understanding without words, so fucking hot, want you so badly.  
  
_There's a sudden hitch in Croc's steady breathing, his grip on GQ tightening, and this, GQ knows, this is the moment. “Yes or no,” he asks, already breathless, because holding back is suddenly so much work. “Tell me.”  
  
And Croc looks up at him and gives him a sharp nod, luminous eyes clear and wide and lips parting on a soft approving noise, and there's the consent GQ was waiting for. He doesn't really know what to expect as he bends his head to kiss Croc for the first time. But whatever his expectations were, they are surely exceeded. Croc's lips are cold beneath his, the scales lining them smaller and softer before fading inwards into warm, tender flesh much like a human's. The teeth, on the other hand, are certainly not human, but whatever apprehension GQ felt before dissipates as he actually traces them with his tongue. They are sharp, yet not like a razor he might cut himself with, but more like a knife with a blunt edge and a pointy tip. The little pinpricks across his tongue send a shot of arousal down his spine and he pushes Croc over onto the bed, falling in after him.  
  
“Clothes off,” he gasps and forces himself to pull back so he can yank his shirt over his head.  
  
Croc's eyes trace his hands as GQ makes quick work of his belt, boots, pants and socks until he's down to his boxers. He looks like he got struck by lightning and GQ remembers to slow down a bit. He drags his hands down Croc's chest, tracing the scale patterns until his fingers catch in the waistband of his sweat pants. Then he pulls, gently, until Croc moves where he wants him, settles in between his legs.  
  
And finally, Croc's composure starts to crumble. He stretches out over GQ, covers him with his body and pushes his hands under his back to crush him against his chest. GQ goes willingly, moaning and writhing beneath him, and he can _feel_ the scales on Croc's belly slide against his cock through his boxers, and that's almost too much. Sweat starts gathering on his brow and in the hollow of his throat, and Croc seems to like that in particular. Nuzzling GQ's jaw, he presses an open-mouthed kiss to his pulse point, teeth nipping the tender skin, and breathing, breathing, as GQ's heartbeat stutters and then ramps up.  
  
And that unravels Croc completely. “Belong to me,” he growls, and the words are so fast and tight and sharp, like a punch, like he has to force himself to speak at all and just wants to get it over with.  
  
GQ shudders and can't help but grin like a maniac. “Stating that or asking,” he jokes, grip on Croc's shoulders tightening. So he can _feel_ them go still a second later, solid and unmovable like a rock. “Croc?”  
  
Croc is not looking at him. He doesn't move at all as he's hovering above him, not touching any of his skin where it counts. And GQ suddenly wonders whether he actually meant to say what he said. Which would be ridiculous, because with Croc, there are no accidents. Everything he does, everything he says, it's always _on purpose_. But the way he is hesitating now, GQ can't help but think he didn't mean to say it. Which, damn, would suck so hard. He pulls back, folding his hands awkwardly on his chest, so Croc doesn't feel caged in case he actually wants to get away.  
  
“Croc,” he tries again, voice quiet, careful. “What's wrong?”  
  
There's no answer, not in words anyway. But Croc abruptly moves back into a crouch at the other end of the bed, and GQ is sure he would've been gone if there was anywhere for him to go. There's the pool, of course, but they know each other well enough by now that Croc can imagine what that would achieve. Nothing, really. He knows GQ wouldn't let this go. He wouldn't push about it, but he wouldn't leave, either. He'd keep sitting there until Croc re-emerged and used his words.  
  
And GQ can feel there is a serious talk coming. It's not like Croc to withdraw like that, never has been, at least not between the two of them. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, then sits up, slowly. He's extremely conscious of the fact he is not wearing much in terms of clothes, which makes him feel strangely vulnerable. Croc shifts away further in response, out of reach, and that already hurts before they can even get into whatever this is about. It prompts GQ to start talking even though he was going to let Croc have his space to work through it. But he needs to stop this now before Croc can retreat further into himself.  
  
“Hey, what's going on,” he asks, and as expected, there is no answer. So he starts checking off the list of potential problems they are facing here. “You don't want it to go this fast? That's fine.”  
  
No reply, no movement. Okay, no.  
  
“You... don't want this at all?”  
  
A harsh exhale. Okay, getting colder. Good. For a moment there, GQ was actually worried. But if Croc wants this, and wants it this fast, too... Maybe it's not about Croc at all. But GQ was not really complaining, was he? He can't believe he's even asking this. “You think I should be freaking out, because you want me to belong to you?”  
  
And there, there it is. Croc's lips pull tight across his teeth, the tips of his fangs peeking out. It's almost a sneer, but not quite. GQ has come to realize it's as close to admitting he's nervous as Croc is ever going to get. “That's it? Seriously? You, what, believe I don't want that, too? That-” Oh, and the epiphany hits GQ like an actual punch, because it's so cruel – and so far from the truth. “That I think of you as an animal, now? Just because you get possessive in bed? Because you ask me to commit only to you? For the love of God, what did you think I was doing?”  
  
He has talked himself into a rage now, he knows it, but it's damn hard to stop. He's spitting mad at Croc for assuming these terrible things about him. He thought he'd made his point pretty clear before, with the way he'd been moaning and shaking apart beneath Croc's hands. “Jesus, Croc. I'm all yours here, you must know that. Have been since Midway. I'm all the fucking way in.”  
  
Croc rocks a little on the balls of his feet, then stills again. “Dangerous.”  
  
Oh, really. “Dangerous,” GQ repeats, deadpan. He can't believe they're really doing this now. _Now._ In the middle of getting it on. “What is dangerous? Being with you? And why's that? Because you might suddenly decide you just gotta eat me after all?”  
  
Croc looks at him then, and even without all-too-expressive features to aid him, GQ can read his thoughts on his face. “Oh, funny. Really, really funny. We were getting there, you know, before you blew a fuse and went all unfair on my ass. Because that's what this is. Unfair. I'm not scared of your teeth, or your scales, or even your goddamn crocodile dick. I'm not scared of letting you have your way with me. You know why? Because you're not going to hurt me.”  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
GQ's eyes widen and he almost chokes on his own spit, because he's taking such a huge breath in his shocked surprise. Croc's gaze flits away from him once again, and God, that's all the confirmation he needs. “This is why you- What the-” GQ has to stop and get his stupid head back in order. Because this, this is so fucked up. “You really think you might lose control and hurt me?”  
  
Croc huffs, fingers catching in the sheets as he balls them into fists. “Almost did when I-”  
  
“When you were drugged out of your mind, you mean.” GQ shakes his head, exasperated. “That's not what Rick said. He told me the only thing you could focus on was keeping me close to you, keeping me safe. You almost attacked _him_ , because you wanted to protect me.” Croc shrugs, pretends he doesn't remember. Which is utter bullshit. “Croc, what makes you think you're going to hurt me just because you're getting a bit worked up when you _didn't_ do it then, smashed to hell and back?”  
  
“Wanted to mark you, just now. Bite you.” The words come slowly, reluctantly, but Croc is not backing down when he locks eyes with him. There is pain there, and something akin to anger, directed at himself. “Don't ever wanna hurt you.”  
  
There's a retort waiting on the tip of his tongue, about how many people enjoy a little pain during sex. But hell, how should Croc know? It's up to GQ to teach him that. “Okay, first of all, I am introducing a new rule: we talk about what we like and don't like during sex. We don't just jump the gun and assume something is off the table. We ask first and we talk about it. Got it?”  
  
Croc huffs, once. It's half-annoyed, because he doesn't like to be told what to do, but also half-relieved, because the idiot actually thought GQ would run for the hills. Honestly. Even thinking about Croc marking him gets him all hot and bothered again. And Croc knows it, too, if the way his nostrils flare is any indication. Not to forget the surprised look he gives him. “Yep,” GQ says, stretching back out on the bed, giving Croc a clear view of the effect he has on him. “This is happening. Now, let me tell you how much I like feeling your teeth on me during sex.”  
  
Croc hesitates for a second longer, but then he's leaning back over him, hands sliding up his sides and boxing him in. GQ doesn't bother suppressing a low moan. “You do?”  
  
GQ grins up at him as he cradles his face to pull him close. “Yeah.” Then he kisses him.  
  
Croc gives a pleased hum and kisses him back, his tongue darting into GQ's mouth. Tasting him. _God._ GQ moans again, and Croc takes that as his cue to lick a wet stripe across his throat. His tongue feels completely different from a human tongue, cool and mostly dry, with tiny bumps and barbs that catch in GQ's _highly_ responsive skin. “That is so hot,” GQ mutters, suddenly remembering to point out to Croc how much he's actually enjoying this.  
  
And it seems to work.  
  
Growing bolder, Croc works his way kissing and licking down his chest. As he's nearing one of his nipples, GQ's breathing goes haywire in anticipation, and Croc gives him an assessing look. “Yeah,” GQ gasps, grabbing him by the neck and pushing him where he wants him. “Fuck, yeah. Please.”  
  
With a low laugh, Croc obeys and swipes his tongue across his nipple, teeth catching the sensitive skin _just so_ , and GQ forgets to keep it down so the guards don't come running. He lets loose a hoarse shout instead of the moan he was aiming for, which seems to please Croc, because he does the same thing again on the other side. Learning fast, the thrice-evolved bastard.  
  
“Christ,” GQ forces out. He keeps babbling nonsense, with some more curses thrown in, because Croc is really going for it now. Reassured by the noises he makes – and maybe his scent, too (which is all arousal and probably screaming _more, more, amazing, more, all yours_ ) – Croc is touching and tasting him everywhere he can reach, and GQ can only lie there and try not to come too early. Which is hard work, seriously. When Croc finds a particularly _awesome_ spot in the dip of his hipbone, GQ actually has to reach into his boxers to grab the base of his dick and squeeze, because that was _close!  
  
_“Not yet,” he breathes. “Not yet.”  
  
Croc looks up at him and grins, a bright, real grin, and GQ has to squeeze tighter. “Not yet? What's missing?”  
  
And shit, that's such a loaded question. GQ can't even tell if he just doesn't know or is having him on. “Well-” A blush explodes across his face and he stops to catch his breath. Croc's grin gets wider and despite the pull of annoyed irritation in his gut, GQ has to laugh. The cheeky shit. “You ready to go there? I mean, technically, there's nothing holding us back. We're both being regularly tested for all kinds of nasty stuff, so we don't need-”  
  
Croc, apparently, doesn't have the patience to wait out GQ's monologue. Which is an answer in itself. Without further ado, he tugs GQ's boxers out of the way and ducks his head to take his cock into his mouth. And GQ can't decide which of the sensations he feels is the best – the drag of the edges of the scales framing Croc's lips, the rough texture of his tongue or his large hands on his hips holding him still.  
  
All in all, the sensory overload is just too much. GQ doesn't even manage to voice a warning before his orgasm sweeps over him – and knocks him clean out.  
  
When he comes back online, blissed out and wildly disoriented at the same time, the first thing he realizes is that someone is laughing. The second thing that registers is that it's Rick's voice that is laughing. Which is weird and must be a hallucination. But when GQ opens his eyes, blinking against the bright light coming from the hallway, his commanding officer is indeed leaning against the door frame, laughing his ass off.  
  
GQ instinctively scrambles for the covers, but Croc had the foresight to pull the sheets over them – hopefully before Rick arrived. Oh, God. This went from the best to the worst moment pretty fast. “Seriously,” he yells, masking his embarrassment with rage. “Can't a guy get some fucking privacy around here!” Croc turns to him and gives him another of those rare grins. It's smug as hell. GQ scowls. Croc's grin widens. Great. “Right. Now that you both had your fun, maybe you could- wait, what are you doing down here anyway?” He barely remembers to add, “Sir.”  
  
Rick wipes away the tears in his eyes, but his voice is still hitching with laughter. “Control registered your dive into unconsciousness. Thought I should make sure you're still with us.” He pushes away from the door frame and steps out of the cell, quickly pulling the door shut behind him. “And now I know you are, so I'll return to my date with my couch. Don't make me come back.”  
  
And with that, he's gone. GQ blinks, bewildered. That was not the telling-off he had dreaded. “That all he had to say about this?” Croc shrugs, so that's probably a yes on that front. “Huh. Wow.”  
  
Croc lets out a short huff of laughter. “Jealous.”  
  
GQ shakes his head, but joins in. This whole situation is just too ridiculous. But he doubts Rick has eyes for anyone but Deadshot. “Of you or me?”  
  
“Both.”  
  
“Ha. Sure.” GQ falls back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over his head. “Jesus, what a ride.” A sudden thought hits him like lightning and he moves to sit up again. “Hey, what about you? I could-”  
  
Croc cuts him off by gently pushing him back into the sheets, then settles in next to him. “Don't worry about it.”  
  
Oh. _Oh._ “Sorry.” He rubs a hand down his face, embarrassed all over again. “Next time, I'll totally return the favor.”  
  
Croc doesn't reply, but after a long, still moment, he shifts closer, settles an arm against the curve of GQ's spine and pulls him into his chest. They both shimmy around until they are comfortable, with their limbs tangled and the covers evenly shared. It's funny, GQ thinks, that this – locked in a prison cell, held by a supposed monster, so close to those lethal teeth, those sharp claws – is the safest he has ever felt. Sleep is sneaking up on him quickly now, and he puts the few seconds he still has to good use and hides his face in the crook of Croc's neck. On impulse, he opens his mouth to swipe his tongue across the scales covering his throat, and Croc holds him tighter, a satisfied noise rumbling through his chest. Which might be a promise.  
  
They didn't get to the marking part yet, but GQ thinks that may not be so far off anymore.  
  
  
\<|>/  
  
  
Crocodile smut, muhaha! Never thought I'd go for that... xD


End file.
